


Brisé

by musics3xual



Series: Dance!verse [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ballet, Dance!stuck, F/F, F/M, M/M, More characters/pairings/tags will be added as the story progresses, dance au, dancestuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 17:54:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musics3xual/pseuds/musics3xual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dance isn't just an art. It's a way of life. It's not just a passion. You sleep, breathe, live it.</p><p>Karkat Vantas used to be a dancer. </p><p>Dancers are born, not made.</p><p>John Egbert takes lessons at the Lalonde's School of Dance. Karkat Vantas is his instructor. </p><p>Karkat sees John as the potential Karkat used to have.<br/>John thinks Karkat picks on him too much. </p><p>A Dance!Stuck fanfiction based on the lovely art of the lovely http://nevernoahh.tumblr.com/ !</p><p>Dance terms, if used, will be explained at the end of each chapter in the notes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lalonde's school of Dance.

“Demi, Grand, Demi, Grand, port de bras, sous-sus,” Karkat informs the class, eyes scanning the room of full dancers. Leotards in shades of pinks, blues, nudes, and the oh-so classic black, as well as a few males, sporting the just-as-classic white t-shirt tucked into black, footed, dance leggings. 

“The music doesn’t stop, so then I want a turn in relevé to land in fifth, tendu out, and start over,” He begins to walk around the room, inspecting each dancer’s lines. Their posture. Their form. His eyes rake up the bodies of each dancer. This one’s turn out is god awful. This one’s a tad pudgy around the waist; they’ll never make it. This one? So short, they’d never even make it into the corps du ballet. 

“And remember, if I see any of you stop in the middle of the exercise, be it for a drink of water or to adjust your leotard, you’d better be prepared to do pointe without your lamb’s wool,” Karkat’s eyes stop at one of the un-named members of the class. “And for boys, I’ll have you assist me in teaching the class partnering lesson.” He proclaims. Being the male of a partnering lesson was threatening enough. It’s hard enough to carry yourself, in dance, let alone guide another person as well. And if any of these fuckers so much as think about dropping Karkat or the ladies of the class, they’re as good as dead. Or kicked out. But in the dance industry, nothing is worse than being told to leave a class.

Nothing.

Then, Karkat hears a voice behind him.

“Isn’t that enticing us to stop, then?” There are a few stray chuckles as you turn around, eyes glaring daggers at the speaker. 

It’s John Egbert, AKA jokester extraordinaire, AKA Mr. Never-Shuts-His-Trap-In-Class, AKA John Fucking Egbert. 

AKA, Karkat’s most capable student who has more potential than any of the other dancers currently in the room, maybe more than Karkat himself. 

Ha, that’s a laugh.

Karkat walks over to John as he feels the class’s eyes on him, stepping in front of him and grabbing the boy’s inside-arm and moving it forward on the bar a good, solid three inches. He looks back up at John after doing so. 

“I didn’t say I’d be your partner,” Karkat practically growls. John has some dumb, smug look on his face like he totally knows something his teacher doesn’t. It is quite infuriating. 

“Strange word choice, wouldn’t you say, Karkat?” Is John’s cheeky response. Karkat practically boils over at this, hearing snorts and choked laughter that other members of the class couldn’t contain. Karkat feels his cheeks heat up the slightest degree. He blames the lack of fans in their New York classroom and the hot, spring sun streaking in through the large windows on the far wall of the room. 

“Get your head out of the gutter, Egbert. Maybe you’ll dance better,” He scolds, turning on his heels and almost marching back to his stereo. He knows that moron is still /watching/ him, but then again, most of the class is watching him, so he shouldn’t be all that angry for being stared at.

However, it only really gets under his skin when /John/ stares.

After briefly fiddling with the cheap, dusty stereo the company has supplied him with, Karkat punches in the track number for quick plié warm up. Ah, the early hours of class. The music begins and Karkat turns back to the class to see everyone with their left hand on the bar in preparation. 

Four counts in, they begin to move. Karkat prowls up and down the isles. He pokes and adjusts various bodies depending on their areas of issue. This one isn’t turning out enough. This one has her heels up as she demi pliés. This one’s head is looking down at the dancer in front of her’s feet, clearly not having paid attention when Karkat was giving instruction. His eyes move up and down each form, picking out all their problems and corrections that need to be made.

However, only the dancers with potential get Karkat’s help. 

He isn’t here for people who try to dance. He’s here for the people who need to dance. 

If you don’t have the right body or the right will flow, this industry is not cut out for you. Or more, you are not cut out for this industry. Willpower, sometimes, is not enough. Drive isn’t always enough. You are born a dancer. You are made a professional. 

Karkat stops beside John. He’s struggling. He’s sickling in the tendu, a childish mistake, and his head is down. Karkat glares, kneels to the floor, taking John’s foot in both hands and pointing it the right way forcefully. He forces John’s foot the right way, watching it for a moment. When John’s doing the right thing, he’s got a beautiful arch. Almost a perfect 180-degree angle. If he were a girl, he’d be a beautiful pointe dancer. 

Karkat rises and takes John’s head, now, again in both hands, one under his chin and one on John’s cheek on the opposite side of John’s face. Karkat jerks John’s head into the right position, which, now, is towards Karkat. If looks could kill, John would be a dead man. 

“Pay attention in class,” He snarls at the student. His palms hold John’s head forcefully as the blue-eyed male’s feet continue to work below them. 

“I am paying attention,” John responds, playful childish games forgotten. His voice is sharp, almost accusing Karkat of wrongfully picking on him. Ha. 

“Then do it right.” Karkat bites out, before stalking off towards the stereo once more. Karkat has a small, chrome stool that sits beside the stereo, facing the class so that he can watch them all at once. He plops down on it, sitting up straight as his eyes inspect the class like that of a hawk watching it’s prey. He sees every mistake, every hesitation, and every flinch. His eyes turn to his star pupil once more. 

John’s in the right position, his feet and legs strong as he rises up onto releve and soussus, His arms are bent slightly too much at the elbows in high fifth, but his poise and height give him an advantage among other dancers. His posture isn’t quite right, (‘tuck in your pelvis, suck in your ribs, use your fucking back!’) but his lines are gorgeous, none the less. His fingertips are in the right position, his muscles in his legs are tense as John pushes himself to do the right thing perfectly. 

And he stands out, John. His grace and lines, when he really pushes himself, are nearly flawless. 

With the right work and enough private lessons, perhaps John could get a lead with a professional company. Perhaps John could be as great of a dancer as his instructor was. 

But that time is over. 

The song ends and the dancers flip around, repeating the exercise with their right hands at the bar. Karkat’s eyes follow each movement and flex. Each demi and grand plié are inspected careful as Karkat scrutinizes every one of them. All the dancers. They all need improvement. He scoots off his stool, black, canvas ballet flats a contrast to the greyish marley flooring, walking over to another one of his best dancers. 

“Tuck your chin,” He tells her, standing beside her with his hands behind his back. The blonde’s eyes don’t move from their position, slightly to the side of Karkat’s head, watching some invisible behind him. She complies.

“Star pupil giving you trouble?” Rose asks him, still not looking at him. Karkat pokes at her arm, trying to get her to straighten it slightly. She does so perfectly.

“It doesn’t concern you,” He warns her. “And he is not my star pupil. He has potential.”

“I can see. As can my mother,” She hums, dipping down into the Grand plié before meeting Karkat’s eyes for the first time. 

“She might consider a spot for him in the company, you know,” Rose informs Karkat, taking great pride in the slight twitch in her instructor’s expression.

“Don’t roll over on your inner toes,” Karkat grunts before moving onto his next student. Then, it’s routine for a while.

Tuck in your ribs.

Eyes off the floor. 

You’re not pointing hard enough.

You need new pointe shoes or you’re gonna snap your ankle.

Then, 

“You didn’t show up for your private lesson thursday,” Karkat tells John like it’s something the blue-eyed boy doesn’t know. John’s eyes flick to Karkat, shocking the teacher with icy blue. 

“I forgot,” He says. 

“Ballet isn’t about how many classes you attend. It’s about how many classes you don’t miss,” Karkat repeats the quote, one his instructor always enjoyed telling him. 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” John raises an eyebrow, breaking his coordination a bit, then flicking his eyes down and trying to fix it as his foot goes a beat off the music. Karkat sighs, moving his foot to stop John’s for a half second, then moves it away, putting John back on tempo. 

“Most companies would kick you out if you so much as thought that,” Karkat almost growls at his student. 

“Who says I want to get into a company?” John mutters, eyebrows knitting together, somewhat in frustration, somewhat in anger. 

Karkat’s fuming too hard to respond.

“You’d better be on time for your private tomorrow,” Karkat tells him simply before walking away, not even bothering to correct John’s line of vision (his eyes are looking too far up). He hears John make a sputtering attempt at speaking before shutting up.

Good. 

 

“Alright,” Karkat claps his hands together to get the class's attention as the music ends. He makes some very vague hand gestures to the class before speaking.

“So this is what I want,” He says, quirking a slight smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few of the steps:
> 
> -Plie ('Demi' and 'Grand'): One of the simplest ballet moves; what you learn at square 1 of dance, and continue to use /forever/. Literally: Bent, or a bending of the knees. A 'demi' plié is a slighter bend of the knees, and a 'grand' plié is a much deeper bend of the knees. 
> 
> \- Port De Bras: Basically, stretching forward or backward. Elongating the spine up and over, then stretching. 
> 
> \- Sous-sus: Literally: Under-over. In a tight fifth position, rise up onto half-toe.
> 
> -Tendu: Literally: Stretched out. Slide the foot out (to the front, side, so on) with the toe pointed. 
> 
> -Releve: Literally: To rise. Go up on half toe.


	2. Développé

John stared down at the red plastic tray on the table and the subway sandwich he hadn’t even touched since he sat down. To anyone walking by, he’d appear bored as he rested his cheek on his knuckles, elbow against the metal of the table, alone and waiting for his friends to join him. 

This is routine for them now. Finish classes, meet up for dinner at the mall right outside of the facility. Then, they would go their separate ways, some of them to apartments, some to homes, and, in Rose’s case, right back to the studio for evening classes, as her mother insisted. But secretly, Rose enjoyed going to them as much as her mother enjoyed having her go. 

Speak of the prima ballerina.

Rose scooted the chair across from John out, sliding down into it, holding what appeared to be… a dull, plain salad with water.

“Morning class, afternoon class, evening class, and… a salad. Really living it up today, aren’t you, Rose?” He joked, smiling and cocking an eyebrow at the blonde. She rolled her eyes, smiling all the while. 

“It’s packed with various proteins and greens. Quite healthy. Much healthier than crabs and processed turkey,” She quipped, opening up the pre-made salad and beginning to pour a small packet of dressing into it. John stuck his tongue out childishly, sitting up straight.

“Yeah, John, don’t mock Rose for being the _healthy_ one here,” Jade hummed as she practically skipped to her seat, beside John, making a point to nudge him with her shoulder as she slid her tray beside his own, the scent of Korean Barbeque radiating up from it. 

“Wow, Jade, maybe I should become a modern dancer. You’ve got more on your plate than what Rose eats in a week.” John received a menacing glare from Rose at this comment, which he chose to block out. 

Jade’s hair was still in a long ponytail from class, and John became very aware of this as she flipped her head to the side in order to purposefully smack him in the face with it, John responding with a loud ‘ow!’

“Hey! I’m not eating all of it! I might take some home for Bec! And you guys always mooch almost all of it off me anyways!” She stuck out her lower lip in a ridiculous looking pout. 

“Point taken, but I think we’re doing old Bec a favor by keeping him away from that,” John heard over his shoulder, turning his head to see Dave taking a seat beside him, tossing a shiny, red apple between his hands. He stopped momentarily once he sat beside John to take a large bite out of it, a resounding crunch seeming to echo in the already packed cafeteria around them. He reclined, leaning back into his chair, as the rest of the people at the table sat up with almost inhuman posture and upright-ness. 

“Sit up, Dave. That can’t be good for your dancing,” Rose tisked, shaking her head. 

“Hey, hip hop dancers need to be low on the floor. Half our dancing requires we be caved over like the hunchback of Notre Dame.” Dave has a point, as he talks with his mouth full of apple. After saying this, he turns his sunglasses-hidden stare to John, swallowing his bite before he speaks. 

“Rose told me, ya know. About Vantas being on your case. I think you should just drop the whole ballet thing and join my class. Even if you have no flow or groove whatsoever, it’ll be better than getting picked on.”

“Come on, I can’t do hip-hop,” John agreed, rolling his eyes dramatically at Dave’s completely preposterous statement. “I’ll leave that to you and Dirk.”

“He’s not getting picked on,” Rose interjects, as-a-matter-of-factly. “On the contrary, Karkat seems to rather like him; he corrects you, John, more than anyone else in the class. Even more than me.” Though Rose’s subtile smile looks identical to how it normally does, John can’t help but feel like it looks more smug than usual. 

“God, John, you’ve got too much sexual tension with the guy.” Dave takes a sip of John’s diet coke. John’s not really supposed to be drinking carbonated, sugary drinks anymore, considering how nasty they are for your health, but he can’t say he cares. Not even in the slightest. 

“Ha,” John grunts sarcastically. “Dave, the only type of ‘tension’ between Karkat and I is that I want to _passionately_ trip him and break his ankle.”

“Ouch,” Jade hisses, grimacing. “That’s low...” Wanting to break someone’s ankle, in dance, is the equivalent of wanting to snap their neck. John doesn’t reply, choosing instead to look down at his sandwich once more and try to take a bite out of it. He makes a face as he does so. Someone put way too much salt on this thing. He finishes his bite and swallows before speaking.

“-…” Just kidding. Rose cuts him off as his opens his mouth to say something.

“Your little flirtatious games in class must be pretty awkward, then; I know they’re weird for us. Half the dancers automatically have assumed you two are ex’s.” She shrugs, taking a sip of her water. Elegantly, of course, because that’s Rose’s style: Inform John of something awful, then continue to go about her business as if she were talking about the weather. 

“They’re- We are not flirting!” John stutters, flailing his arms a bit, trying to prove his point that way! Rose narrows her eyes at him like John just told her the dumbest thing on earth. She says nothing, though, and John takes it as a small victory, even though he knows that he has, in no way, won this yet. After all, Dave’s at this table.

“How’s your dad like you getting all cozy with the teach while you’re here, Egs? Not sure that’s why he shipped you here…” John groans at Dave’s question, resting his elbows on the table, then putting his face in his hands. He mumbles into them. 

“I am NOT getting COZY with Karkat.” He rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms before looking up again. “Also, he didn’t 'ship' me to Lalonde’s. He encouraged me. Forcefully.” 

“Come on, John! If your dad hadn’t sent you to get proper dance schooling like your cousin, you wouldn’t have met us!” Jade exclaims excitedly, and she does, in fact, have a point. Dad’s inspiration to send John to this dance academy was from Jane’s father telling him about how much she loved it, ‘being a great outlet for her creative abilities.' And now, as a fresh-out-of-college student, his dad had, all-expenses-paid, sent John to join his cousin, Jane Crocker, in New York to be taught at Lalonde’s school for dance. 

There, he had met Rose.

Who had introduced him to Dave and Jade.

Who had introduced him to Roxy, Dirk, Jake, and many, many others. 

“Point taken.” He agrees with a sigh. He, suddenly, really doesn’t feel like the bready goodness that is his subway sandwich. 

“Alright, alright. All I’m saying is that you guys definitely need to cool it with that weird tension thing you guys have going on. We can practically smell it from the hip hop room.” 

“My modern class has bets on how you guys are going to 'end up'!” Jade chimes in. “I bet 5 dollars on you guys becoming good friends, when this all blows over.”

John grimaces. “Out of curiosity, what are the other bets?” 

“$25 on you fucking, $30 on you killing each other.” 

John groans loudly before filling his mouth with another bite of sandwich, chewing with an unexcited expression. Of course they have bets. Of course. 

“It’s mostly your own fault, John. Did you even hear yourself today during class?” Rose asks him, cocking an eyebrow. John thinks back to class, opening his mouth to retaliate. 

“How is it only gay if I am the one making jokes like that!?” 

“Because no one else makes jokes,” Rose makes a show of doing air quotations. “’like that,’ John.” 

John grumbles to himself, looking down at his sandwich, as though it were the source of all of his problems. Fucking sandwich. 

“Hey Jade, can I add money to that bet of your class’s?”

“Shut up, Dave,” John responds, before Jade can even answer. 

They sit in silence for a moment before Jade asks a question about the reasoning behind the age old boxers vs. briefs argument, and the conversation is dropped, much to John’s personal joy. 

Instead, he’s left to think about it himself, and contemplate if Karkat and his bickering has really gotten so bad that there’s about an equal chance of John either fucking or killing Karkat, or vice versa, when asking Jade’s class about the subject. 

Not to his personal joy.

**Author's Note:**

> Give me feedback, please! I need to know if I need to ease up with the ballet terms, so on…
> 
> also, give me characters you want to see here! I already have a few plans, but suggest anything!


End file.
